Island of the Blue Foxes

by Stephen R. Bown

  That Steller was right in his assessment of situations, at least as often as he was wrong, was of little consolation in Siberia and on the American voyage. His rigid insistence eventually provoked the officers to do the opposite of what he suggested, so that none need admit they heeded his advice. When Steller was present, decisions tended to be made not in a sober and judicious manner but under a cloud of acrimony and knee-jerk reactions. Steller grew to hate his Russian cohorts, and they hated him in return.

  When it came to the study of the natural world, however, Steller was a near fanatic, furiously laboring to record all that his nimble and brilliant mind took in. He was ceaseless in his labors, placing himself in great danger and willingly suffering deprivation, cold, and hunger in his quest to collect and study the newly discovered species. His studies of the flora and fauna of the Northeast Pacific coast of Siberia and the Northwest Pacific coast of North America were the most reliable and insightful for nearly a century afterward. Steller made these records under the harshest conditions. In what was to be the worst case in the winter of 1742, he scrawled his observations in Latin while he shivered in a crude and drafty sailcloth hut on an uninhabited island, while around him mariners were dying from scurvy and blue foxes burrowed into the shallow graves to feast upon their flesh.

  BORN ON MARCH 10, 1709, Steller was the second son in a family of eight in the German town of Windsheim, raised in a secure middle-class home. His father was the town cantor and also the organist. Being a cantor, the one who led the singing in church, brought little wealth but considerable social prestige, and the distinction was marked by the privilege of carrying a sword about town. Both Bach and Handel were cantors. In school Steller was consistently at the head of his class and won a scholarship to the university at Wittenberg in 1729 to study music and theology. As a youth he demonstrated, according to his brother, “a great inclination towards the investigation of natural things,” and his tenure at the staunchly Lutheran institution was cut short by his desire to understand the world rather than preach doctrine. Eventually, Steller transferred to the University of Halle to study anatomy and medicine, and within two years he was giving highly attended lectures on botany. But the jealousy of the salaried professors and his own temper drove him to leave in 1734 for Berlin and the possibility of an official government appointment.

  The prospects for a freelance botanist in Berlin in 1734 were not promising, and the short, blue-eyed, and ambitious young man cast his eyes to St. Petersburg and Russia. Among the progressive reforms initiated by Peter the Great in the previous decades and continued by his widow, Empress Catherine, and his niece Empress Anna was the ongoing support of the Academy of Sciences in St. Petersburg, chiefly staffed by foreign intellectuals.

  When Danish mariner Vitus Bering proposed a second voyage of exploration in the Pacific for the Russian government, news of this scientific and exploratory journey on a scale unheard of in Europe traveled within the scientific community. To a twenty-five-year-old man, reports of the ambitious Great Northern Expedition—the great distances to be traveled, the vast extent of land to be explored, and the possibility of somehow reaching America across the Pacific—were a siren call to action. He admitted later to having “an insatiable desire to visit foreign lands.” Steller set off for Danzig, Poland, which had been besieged by the Russian Army earlier that spring. He presented himself as a surgeon to the authorities and was eventually put in charge of a transport returning wounded Russian soldiers to St. Petersburg. He then earned a position as physician to the archbishop of Novgorod.

  Through contacts and ceaseless efforts, Steller managed, at age twenty-eight, to obtain work at the Academy of Sciences. There the inner clique of Germans and other foreigners was disdainful toward the Russians. It was an attitude that obviously influenced the impressionable young adjunct. That environment seemed to have brought out the worst in his arrogance and would be the cause of many of his troubles on the American voyage. His wished-for commission as a botanist to join the Great Northern Expedition came in 1737. During his brief sojourn in St. Petersburg, he met and married Brigitte Messerschmidt, the attractive widow of one of his former colleagues. She promised to follow him to Siberia as soon as they were wed. When the time for departure drew near, however, she began to reconsider the practicality of her decision, and by the time she had reached Moscow after an arduous winter journey, her mind was made up. She had a daughter from her earlier marriage, and the winter travel showed her that Siberia was not the place to raise her child. She would remain in Moscow while Steller continued east.

  Disillusioned and bitter, Steller set off to seek his fortune in Siberia alone, with orders to meet up with Gmelin and Müller and perhaps to join Spangberg’s voyage to Japan. The romantic setback seems to have further soured Steller’s demeanor. He became short tempered and irascible—more prone to dogmatic disagreement and rude behavior, although he did declare to Gmelin in a letter that “I have entirely forgotten her and fallen in love with Nature.” The journey across Siberia consumed two full years, yet he made few friends, devoting himself thoroughly during this time to his studies of the flora and fauna of the land. His style of travel reveals a personality very different from that of the other scientists. Steller was suited for the primitive conditions. Gmelin wrote with shock that Steller “had reduced [his entourage] to the least possible compass. His drinking cup for beer was the same as his cup for mead and whiskey. Wine he dispensed with entirely. He had only one dish out of which he ate and in which was served all his food. For this he needed no chef. He cooked everything himself.… It was no hardship for him to go hungry and thirsty a whole day if he was able to accomplish something advantageous to science.” Gmelin and Steller clashed over Steller’s responsibilities, with Gmelin attempting to order Steller about as if he were an assistant and Steller resisting and sending many formal complaints and commissions back to St. Petersburg. Gmelin assumed that he was senior to Steller in the hierarchy, while Steller believed he was to act independently, particularly since they were the same age and had the same education and credentials. Other than his conflict with Gmelin, Steller’s one enduring impression of Siberia was an unsettling fury at the general and persistent abuses of the native population by the yasak (tax) collectors, who were notoriously corrupt and cruel in their demands for furs.

  The scientific goals of the Great Northern Expedition included gathering general information about Siberia: How cold was it in winter, how many hours of sunlight were there in each season, was it dry or humid, how many lakes and rivers could be used for navigation, and what valuable minerals were there? They were also to record the customs of the various non-Russian peoples as well as all the commonly used place-names and a general local history of each town or region. Artists were to sketch buildings, landscapes, and peoples. Observing and compiling information on the flora and fauna of the land were also major objectives, and this aligned with the spirit of the era. The cataloging of all nature was one of the preeminent scientific goals of the era, and most common plants and animals known today were collected, classified, and named in a frenzy of scientifically motivated exploration. Until the 1859 publication of Darwin’s The Origin of Species, it was believed that there was a finite number of species on the planet and through diligent effort all of nature might be collected and studied. Compiling an enormous chart of all living things was seen as the starting point to understanding the bewildering variety of the natural world. As maritime trade flourished and the ships of seafaring nations such as Britain, the Netherlands, France, and Spain girdled the globe, mariners returned from their journeys with multitudes of new specimens of animals, plants, and natural curiosities that were not listed in any of the descriptions found in ancient texts. The evidence of so many new and unfamiliar life forms rendered obsolete the old bestiaries and herbals, which had previously described the common animals and plants. Most of these texts combined pictures and descriptions of the known animals of a region with fantastic creatures such as mermaids,
unicorns, and sea monsters, which were said to live conveniently in the blank spaces on maps.

  Close to the time of the Great Northern Expedition, Swedish naturalist Carolus Linnaeus (1707–1778) was developing his renowned classification system. First outlined in 1735 in Systema Naturae, it required two Latin names for each species, what is known as binomial nomenclature—the distinctions of genus and species as the identifiers of any given specimen. His decision to classify them based on their sexual organs and method of reproduction, however practical, was an approach that provoked indignation among certain prudish members of the intelligentsia. English botanist the Reverend Samuel Goodenough remarked that “a literal translation of the first principles of Linnaean botany is enough to shock female modesty.” In spite of these reservations, Linnaeus’s system was quickly adopted as the standard for communication among botanists—although it was not sufficiently established by the time of Steller’s journey through Siberia and Pacific America for him to have consistently used it in his own descriptions. Each of the three “Kingdoms of Nature”—animal, mineral, and vegetable—was subdivided into classes, orders, genera, and finally species. The kingdom of animals, for example, included mammals, birds, amphibians, fish, insects, and worms. Linnaeus imagined every living thing a part of a great hierarchy from the lowest creatures to the highest, with humans at the apex. Siberia and Kamchatka had never been visited by trained naturalists before, and there were many plants and animals unknown in Europe, or variations of familiar ones, such that it could take years to locate, identify, and describe them all. It was an enormous undertaking that required logical organizing and a deft and curious mind, traits that Steller possessed in abundance.

  When Bering met Steller in Okhotsk in August 1740, he was immediately impressed with the young naturalist and began incorporating him into future plans.

  STELLER’S PERSONALITY IGNITED THE simmering factions within the scientific contingent. It had also been a thorn in Bering’s side since the earliest days of the expedition. When Müller, Gmelin, and Croyère first floated into Yakutsk with their band of assistants and laborers aboard a dozen riverboats in September 1736, they found the town already bursting with people, swelled by Bering and Spangberg’s men readying for the transport of goods over the mountains to Okhotsk and the preparations for the Japanese voyages. Between all the newcomers of the expedition, perhaps eight hundred additional people were in the town of four thousand. There were only 250 houses. Although the expedition usurped the houses of locals for their own use, not everyone was satisfied. Müller and Gmelin had a high opinion of their status and coveted the commodious abodes of the wealthy fur traders, not the humble but serviceable dwellings Bering had secured for them. Of course, they complained at this slight to their honor and prestige. Bering brushed them off brusquely, but they continued to complain to various officials. Siberia had proved to be an eye-opening experience for them—the harsh conditions, lack of any amenities, truculent and rude officials who did not understand or appreciate their scientific objectives and refused them aid, and now in Yakutsk inadequate housing. They were distracted by mosquitoes and other insects, vermin infested the food, and there were blasting heat and dust in the summer and dark, wind-lashed, freezing winters. But to their credit, the scientists were not kept from their work. Gmelin collected plants for his opus Flora siberica, and Müller traveled, interviewed, and consulted local archives for his history. He spoke to many Russians who had undertaken fascinating and dangerous journeys and discovered numerous original documents in isolated archives in Tobolsk, Yakutsk, and Irkutsk.

  On top of their dislike of Siberians in general, who did not respect their status or offer them proper deference, the academicians were plagued by the same problem Waxell wrote about: desertion. Gmelin wrote that the workers, or, as Waxell more accurately described them, “exiles” compelled to provide their services, could never be given any responsibility. “No kindness, no lenience, no friendly address is of any avail,” Gmelin wrote. “He must be treated with the utmost severity if he is to behave. The worst part, as far as we were concerned, is that we have had to learn all these things by experience, since we had nobody to advise us.” Gmelin was also appalled by the Siberians’ drinking habits, on one occasion noting that Easter celebrations had to be done early in the morning, as a sort of prelude to the bacchanalia that followed: “This ungodly drinking lasted four or five days without interruption, and there was no way of stopping the madness.” Some of this discontent was directed at Bering, the commander, whom they felt should have been looking after their interests. Gmelin and Müller sent damning letters back to St. Petersburg, criticizing their leader’s abilities and decisions, claiming that everything was progressing too slowly and that Bering was lenient where he should be harsh and harsh where he should be lenient, and many other criticisms implying that the problems of the expedition were not due entirely to Siberian conditions but exacerbated by Bering.

  Gmelin and Müller would not have gone far in Siberia without Bering’s authority and presence to back them up. But they failed to see it this way, believing that he was the cause of at least some of their setbacks. The academicians and the naval hierarchy of the main expedition did not have much common ground, and they did not believe they shared the same objectives. It was an unwieldly authority structure in which Bering was responsible for them and their needs but technically had no authority over them. They kept busy with their work, using the imperial presence of Bering’s contingent to bolster their own respect and fulfill their own demands from the local populace, while irritated with being under Bering’s overall authority. Bering refused to guarantee the speed or safety of their provisions in transport from Yakutsk to Okhotsk, nor would he promise them well-appointed accommodation in the rugged Pacific town that basically had no infrastructure except that which Spangberg was hastily building. Nor would Bering satisfy their demands for commodious berths aboard the ships that would be sailing to Kamchatka from Okhotsk.

  Faced with these logistical challenges and Bering’s inability, or unwillingness, to ensure their comforts, Gmelin and Müller decided to postpone or abandon their own journey east from Yakutsk. Instead, they sent a young Russian assistant, Stephen Krasheninnikov, to accompany Croyère and the recently arrived naturalist Steller, who also had been collecting plants in Siberia. Steller had met Gmelin in Yeniseisk in January 1739, a year after he had departed St. Petersburg, and Gmelin suggested that Steller take his place as the lead scientist to explore Kamchatka. Steller eagerly agreed, as it would be his chance to be singled out as a pioneer, working on something new and noteworthy. And it would get him out from under Gmelin’s nominal authority.

  THE QUARRELING FACTIONS SENT charges and countercharges by courier back to St. Petersburg. Each accused the other of improper behavior and neglect of duty or drunkenness and other illegal acts. In addition to the quarreling among scientists, Spangberg and Chirikov had no love of each other. Spangberg was not a native Russian but Swedish, and he found Chirikov to be preoccupied with social hierarchy and too fussy about equipment. Spangberg, although a competent and trustworthy officer, often did what he pleased and used intimidation and the threat of his huge dogs to get things done. Chirikov chafed under Bering’s command like an eagle tethered to a post and clamored for more action and less plodding. He considered Spangberg his “archenemy,” so different were their dispositions. He peppered Bering with proposals for new miniexpeditions and for opportunities to make new discoveries, and he was rebuffed repeatedly by the overworked commander, whose inclination was not to seek out exciting new possibilities but to adhere to his imperial instructions. Chirikov claimed that he was “reduced to virtual uselessness since my proposals to him [Bering] are not accepted.… He bears only malice toward me for them.” Chirikov and Spangberg, however, did band together to send back to St. Petersburg disparaging reports of Bering’s leadership.

  Skornyakov-Pisarev also continued to obstruct and dither and sent derogatory reports on Bering’s a
ctions and progress: that he was neglecting his duties to go on sleigh rides with Anna and his children, that he secretly distilled liquor and exchanged it with the native people for furs, that they kidnapped local peoples and compelled them to domestic service. One of the preeminent historians of the Russian expansion to the Pacific, F. A. Golder, stated, “Just what proportion of truth and falsehood these charges contain, it is not easy to determine.” Bering naturally defended himself, against his own men and against the Siberian officials’ obstructionist or self-interested actions. But his main defense was to become ever more conservative in the interpretation of his orders. He knew that the land and people of Siberia could not support the grand ambitions of the Great Northern Expedition in such a short time period, and so he plodded along, working as best as he could with hostile or indifferent local authorities. By refusing any deviation from the letter of his orders, he sought to avoid arbitrary punishment, such as had been meted out to Ovtsin for the crime of speaking to the wrong exile.

  Bering had been beaten down by years of bureaucratic dithering and the stress of brokering compromises among the hundreds of haughty, quarreling delegates, officers, and scientists of the mission. He had been promised everything by the Russian government before he left, yet reality intruded on the fanciful dream once he was in Siberia. Now after years of stressful work in disagreeable conditions, he was being criticized for the delays. His two staunchest defenders in the Russian government, Thomas Saunders and Ivan Kirilov, original champions of the project, had died. The expedition was behind schedule, and the costs were increasing rapidly. By 1737 the expedition had billed three hundred thousand rubles, ten times the amount originally predicted by Bering in his proposal. The Russian government had to blame someone, and Bering was the leader. “Because of failure to send necessary information and a delay in accomplishing the work assigned,” his pay was cut in half starting in 1738, and he was threatened with a reduction in rank, hardly a morale boost, considering the endless work and hardships he had endured. Bering did not get himself out of Yakutsk to Okhotsk until the summer of 1737. The Russian Senate discussed canceling the expedition or replacing Bering with Chirikov, while another report suggested that Spangberg should be placed in command. The tension between Chirikov and Spangberg grew stronger as time passed, since each feared being subordinate to the other.